


A Woman And Her Empire

by consultingadler



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Blood and Injury, F/F, Genderbending, Multi, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 13:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7717258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingadler/pseuds/consultingadler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Moriarty as at the center of the criminal empire in London. He hides in the shadows, spreading fear and earning power as he goes. However, what if behind the Consulting Criminal lies someone else? And who will bring this figure to their knees?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Woman And Her Empire

**Author's Note:**

> This is an absolutely insane idea, I'm going to admit that right now. But, I was in the car and I was listening to Gangsta by Kehlani and an image of a female Jim Moriarty came to mind. Now, I could have just left the genderswap to one character but I decided to make things difficult for myself and this happened. Bare with me. I haven't actually written a fic in a long, long time and I'm a tad rusty (as well as anxious) I'm definitely going to improve though and hopefully in the end this will be what I wanted it to be.  
> Thanks for taking the time out of your day to read my nonsense and sorry if it's short. Just getting warmed up.

Two men enter Battersea Power Station on the South bank of the Thames at exactly 23:43pm on Wednesday, July 6th 2005. The structure is more secure than the rest of the derelict buildings and warehouses that occupy London, and for a brief moment the pair find themselves in a false sense of security-- they’d been in worse places, done worse jobs-- but then it is remembered what they are doing here, and who they are meeting.

London, despite it’s appeal and glamour, homed some of the most notorious (and soon-to-be notorious) criminals in Britain. Most stayed underground, hiding in the shadows and working goons and other men around like puppets, whispering biddings into their ear which were almost always followed. Amongst these, came perhaps the most feared.

James Moriarty’s name had only began to be whispered through the back alley’s of the city. He was young, apparently: cold, ruthless and calculating. More importantly however, was the power that he had come to control in little over a year. Everything linked back to him, and that made the Irish man a powerful ally. A drug cartel was established in London years before. It’s presence was strong and the business ran well, like clockwork, though it could always be better. With a connection like Moriarty, funds could be upped. More drugs could be pumped out and therefore the bigger the profit for the investors. The deal would be simple, sweet. Well, that’s what the two goons had been told and naively, they had believed it.

 

  
“’Ere, this place is bloody dead.” One man informed the other, brows knitted together and causing creases on flawed skin. “Set up?” These occurred often. It was no big deal, they could just leave. Right?

There was a pause, before the second goon shook his head.

“You know these types of cunts, they like to put on a fucking show,” he grumbled. “Psychopaths. Don’t see why they can’t give us the money then piss off.”

“Wouldn’t be fun that way.”

“It’s a fucking drug deal, Kev. It’s not supposed to be fucking fun.”

This was wrong. Well, maybe not to them, no. But this was fun to the man who was pulling it off. It took five minutes for the pair to reach an open part of the station, puddled with rain and being lit by the glow of the full moon. Directly in the middle, sat a desk. It hadn’t been there long, that was more than obvious, and by it’s side stood a muscular woman with a sniper rifle slung over shoulder and an obvious pistol in hand. Her eyes focused on the pair and a faint smirk appeared to have curled onto her lips.

A not-so discrete ‘what the fuck’ left one of the men.

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t realise the elusive Moriarty was sending his fucking girlfriend to do his dirty work.” The pair laughed, one of them stepping forward and seemingly running his gaze over the woman ahead. “And what’s that you’ve got? Did someone give you a gun to play with? Well, sweetheart, I’ve got a gun right here that I think you’d enjoy more.” More laughs came, though this time they were abruptly cut by a sharp ringing of a gun shot that filled and echoed through the empty space around them.

Another laugh, though this time it came from neither of the men, nor the woman ahead. Instead, a form came from the slither of darkness that hid behind the desk. As moonlight hit them, a curved form was revealed, hidden beneath a pencil skirt that cut just above the knee and a tight, white blouse.

As the now-wounded man wailed upon the floor, the form came over to the desk and rested both hands upon the polished wood, leaning upon it as they leaned forward and observed the situation ahead.

“Now, now, Tiger.” A voice of Irish silk came, head cocking to the side before piercing dark eyes flickered to the side and observed their companion. “What have I told you about losing your temper like that? Though… I don’t exactly blame you.”

Red lips curled and soon enough, the woman ahead came into full light as she came around the desk, nails scratching against the surface as she went. The non-injured man seemed to bow in fear, as most did in her presence, though the other crawled backward whilst holding his gushing wound. Blood stained the floor, bullet having gone clean through-- as it usually did.

“W-What the fuck is this?” he spat, looking to his friend who didn’t respond and kept his lips firmly pierced. “For fucks sake!” Reaching down with his free hand, the man appeared to be reaching for his trouser belt, where an obvious gun was held, however was soon stopped with a heel coming down onto his arm.

A snap came with the force, and he cried out.

“Hush now, I don’t like it when the little pigs squeal.” The woman’s nose wrinkled somewhat as she leaned down and soon enough, he was disarmed, the pistol that had once been on his person being idly tossed aside. “I would suggest getting to business, but well… you’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you? I don’t have time for that. I’d tell you to inform your clearly thick bosses that I’d rather not get involved in such nonsense, but I think… no, I think I’ll have more fun. I like fun.”

Pulling up, she twisted her heel further into the flesh of the goon’s arm and smiled as he cried out in pain. “Sebby.” Her voice came sweet, and instantly the muscular figure came forward and cocked her gun, long fingers brushing against the silver and soon holding it out. The bullet came in a flash, piercing the skin of the second man and lodging firmly in the tissue of his brain. Blood spurted, eyes rolled and the two in power looked almost gleeful.

“Good girl.”

Moran looked to her, their gazes meeting with a familiar look of pleasure. “This one?”

“Oh,” she hummed, as if having forgotten the presence of the other man below her, who writhed in pain. “Mm, treat me.”

Her heel came back onto the chipped concrete below them, clicking lightly as she sauntered back to the desk. Behind her, muffled screams came as Moran pinned down the man who lay injured and tore back his shirt. Quickly these screams only increased, though turned from distressed to pained in a matter of seconds. Oh… She liked that sound. It was like music-- so soft, and intimate. A hum left her lips, eyes fluttering closed as she briefly concentrated on the notes, on the intensity. She didn’t turn however, no, that would ruin it. Instead, she leaned against the desk with both hands again and hung her head with long, dark curls following forward and blocking her vision just briefly. For a short time, it’s only herself and the music.

“Jane?” The name came sharp, causing her to inhale and then quickly exhale with flaring nostrils.

“Tiger.” This no longer comes soft, instead filled with venom. “What have I told you about calling me that-”

“He’s dead.” Moran replied quickly, standing from where she kneeled and holstering her now-bloodied knife as she admired the work made upon the man’s chest.

‘JM’ was now engraved permanently on his chest, seeping with crimson blood and staining once pale skin. No doubt he’d be posted somewhere, left as a warning. A lot of bodies were marked with the hand of James Moriarty, a man who existed but not in the way most expected.

“Ah.” The other replied, sighing softly. “Clean this up.”

The order is sharp, and Moran complies. The bodies would be removed and placed elsewhere. There would be no evidence left behind to make a solid case from the murders and as usual, Moriarty would not be linked.

 

A woman leaves Battersea Power Station on the South bank of the Thames at exactly 12:47am on Thursday, July 7th 2005. Her heels take her urgently as she comes to a car and steps inside without a word. Today, a drug cartel will fall to their knees in fear of a man who does not exist. Tomorrow? The world.  
It would take time, she knew this, but eventually every body would tremble in fear of that name. And, Lord, there would not be a single person able to stop her.

At least, not for now.


End file.
